


Angbang Modern AU Drabbles

by witchkings



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Crack, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Fun, M/M, Modern AU, Non-Linear Narrative, Smut, angbang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26230786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: A collection of Angbang drabbles set in various Modern AUs.1: Mairon's Infamous Cat2: Angbang @ IKEA Pt. 13: Angbang @ IKEA Pt. 24: Angbang @ IKEA Pt. 35: The Chaining of Melkor Reloaded (OITNB AU #1)6: The Two Towers Abstracted (OITNB AU #2)7: The One Engagement Ring8: Hacker AU #1
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 17
Kudos: 71





	1. Mairon's Infamous Cat

**Author's Note:**

> These are mostly based on prompts by my friend (darklord on tumblr, she does dope art) and are supposed to be fun and light-hearted. Maybe some mild angst along the way. I just enjoy putting these idiots in ridiculous situations haha, so if you have one you'd like to see just let me know.
> 
> The drabbles aren't supposed to be in one coherent universe unless if they are a series. I'll make sure to name them accordingly :D 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this silly little collection :)

„I thought you’d never agree to come,“ Mairon said, pulling Melkor through the front door of his apartment complex by the sleeve. „We’ve been dating for what now?“

„You would know better than me,“ Melkor said and eyed the foyer with suspicion. It was clean at least, but the beige tiles were from the last decade and the elevator groaned dangerously when Mairon pressed the button to call it.

„Five months, three weeks, and you haven’t been over to my place once.“

Melkor shrugged. It was true, he had his oddities, and one of them was preferring the comforts of his own house. His brother Manwë called it ominous, a cave. Mairon called it pompous and gothic. Melkor thought it was comfortable and he saw no need to spend his nights anywhere else.

The elevator arrived with a shriek and Mairon tugged him along, into it, and used his elbow to press the number eight before turning to Melkor and wrapping both arms around his neck. He had to stand on his tip toes to do it, his strawberry locks tickling Melkor’s nose. His gaze intent, dark.

„Don’t be like this, it’ll be fun. I’ll cook and we’ll watch a movie. Just this once. For me?“ Mairon bat his lashes and Melkor sighed. He missed his cashmere sheets already. The food of his cook who he entertained with the funds his father provided for him so he left the rest of the family alone. But he couldn’t say no to Mairon, at least not always.

„I don’t see why we can’t just go out to eat at a restaurant.“

„Because I want to share more of my life with you. And I want you to meet my kitty, though she’s been hiding the last two days. I hope she didn’t run off and can’t find her way home,“ Mairon said and stole a sweet, lingering kiss off Melkor’s lips before he turned to the rattling doors that opened to reveal a dingy floor. „I do worry sometimes.“

Ah yes, the infamous cat. Probably the one thing Melkor did look forward too – he wasn’t so hopeful about sex, not with Mairon’s cooking in the cards. But he liked felines. Especially feisty ones. And if Mairon’s tales were anything to go by, she was that.

„Alright,“ Melkor said and followed Mairon down the carpeted hallway and into his apartment. It was a fine enough space, Melkor supposed. There was a sizable living room with dark wooden bookshelves, a tv and a wine-red couch which was just hard enough for Melkor’s tastes. An open kitchenette next to the back window and two doors that lead to bed- and bathroom. It was fine, yes. Too unambitious for someone as brilliant as Mairon though.

„So, what do you think?“ Mairon asked, sitting down next to Melkor who had immediately taken a spot on the couch. He eyed the neatly groomed flowers, the one picture Mairon had up on the wall. It showed a volcano mid-eruption.

„I don’t mind it.“

„It’s not that bad. I suppose I could afford more, but I kind of like it like this. Simple, perfunctory,“ Mairon said, gaze swivelling around the room, then back to Melkor. „I’ll ask you again once you had a little time to get used to it.“

„You know you could always move in with me.“

„Oh, there you are kitty cat,“ Mairon exclaimed instead of reacting to Melkor’s generous offer, staring at a spot next to Melkor’s face. Melkor furrowed his brow. He hadn’t heard anything and when he turned around saw no cat.

„Where?“ he asked.

„On your shoulder.“

Mairon pointed and Melkor inclined his face to the side, squinting. There, on the fabric of his favourite suit, sat a fat, brown tarantula. It was hairy and larger than Melkor’s fist. He flinched, pressing his eyes shut.

_Do not scream._

_Do not._

_Stop._

„That is not a cat,“ he said slowly and he could feel the hairy, clicking legs move towards his face, down his arm, all over him. Sweat broke out on his temples and every muscle in his body tensed, ready to bolt.

„Of course not. Did you think it was?“

„You only-„ Melkor stopped, taking a deep breath. He felt something brush his neck and flinched again, but it wasn’t hairy, only Mairon’s hands and when he dared to pop an eye open, Mairon was holding the monster in his palm, cradling it close to his chest. It seemed to lean into him. Melkor couldn’t look away. „You only ever spoke about your kitty cat.“

„It’s what I call her. Her actual name is Shelob, say hi.“ Mairon smiled down at the spider and held it out, straight into Melkor’s face.

Melkor was very proud that he remained seated in that moment. Flashbacks tortured him, flashbacks of a childhood full of waking up to spiders dangling into his face, spiders in his toy boxes, spiders on his plate, spiders in his boots. Spiders everywhere. His sister, Yavanna, used to love to go out and catch all kinds of living things to bring home and play with, but she loved spiders especially and so had their brother Aulë who‘d tended to get lost in caves and bring home the most gruesome eight-legged creatures. Melkor simply hated them. They were disgusting, eerie, evil. They were out for his blood.

„You keep a spider,“ he said, numb to Mairon’s radiant expression.

„Yes, I adore them. You can pet her if you like.“

Melkor shook his head slowly, inching away from the spider, inching away from Mairon who cocked his head in a question.

„No thank you,“ Melkor said.

„Alright, I’ll just take her back to her little enclosure then, one moment.“ Mairon got up, still holding Shelob, and disappeared into the bedroom.

There was no way in hell that Melkor was going to sleep in that room tonight. Nothing and no one would get him in there. Not even Mairon’s most effective seduction techniques.

When he returned to the living room and took his place by Melkor’s side once more, Melkor still sat there, stiff as cardboard and horrified at the sight of the spider, the onslaught of memories.

„Love,“ Mairon said, eyes widening, lips peeling back. Melkor cursed himself silently. The creepy-crawly feeling was still there and he fought hard to suppress a shudder. Even though the blasted thing was a room away. „Are you afraid of spiders?“

„I am most certainly not,“ Melkor pressed through his teeth. He watched Mairon’s grin turn wide, devilish, a thousand thoughts flashing through that pretty brain of his until with an amused exhale, it turned soft. That same softness spilled from his fingertips as he reached over and took Melkor’s hands, uncurling his cramped fists.

„I had no idea.“

„There is nothing to have an idea about,“ Melkor grumbled.

Mairon brought Melkor’s hands to his lips, kissed his knuckles. Heat rushed to Melkor’s neck, evaporating the unease in his shoulders. Mairon smiled against his skin.

„Alright,“ he said. „Of course. Maybe we should go out for dinner after all? I probably forgot half of the ingredients anyway.“

It was more than Melkor deserved probably, this compromise, this indulging of his childish fears. Mairon would never forget, well, anything. Melkor took a deep breath.

„If it’s all the same to you,“ he said. „My treat.“


	2. Angbang @ IKEA Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy :)

„Honestly,“ Mairon huffed, crossing his arms. He stood in the doorway of Melkor's study, his lip curled in distaste, and scanned the room with vicious eyes. Melkor barely suppressed a shudder. It just wouldn't do. He was the muscular one, the scary one, the bad one. He was the one who made babies on the streets cry while Mairon apologized to their mothers. He was the one who dropped his trash in the middle of the street while Mairon picked it up to find the nearest can to deposit it in. He was the one who barely left the house and if so clad all in creaking black leather and sunglasses while Mairon made the city his playground. All this to say that Melkor was disturbed to find out just how fiercely furious his boyfriend could be. How proficiently persistent.

„What?“ Melkor asked. He mimicked Mairon's posture as he leaned against his desk and swiped down a stack of papers with the movement. He knew what had Mairon in a fit, of course, the rocky landscape of chaos between them unmissable even in the dusky light thrown by a sun unable to penetrate Melkor's thick dark curtains. Books speckling the carpeted floor, papers and folders forming hillocks, mine fields of business cards and receipts. In the dead middle there was a pond of trinkets, gift certificates, freebie shirts and ballpoint pens drowning out the floor. It was, to Melkor, inconsequential, but there was a reason he'd never let Mairon into his study before and it was intimately linked to his boyfriend's tendency for compulsive behaviour. And the anger that resulted from Melkor's laissez-faire attitude when it came to cleanliness.

„Oh no,“ Mairon hissed. His face glowed with red spots of anger, his hair auburn curls seemed to quiver. „Don't you dare feign ignorance with me. This is mortifying.” Sighing deeply, Mairon pressed a hand to his heart. Closed his eyes and shook his head. “You cannot seriously tell me that you work here.”

“Don't be melodramatic,” Melkor said, rolling his eyes. He kicked at a book which flew across the room, skittering to a halt before Mairon's bare feet.

“Well, do you?”

They stared at each other, the chaos between them like a rift Melkor couldn't cross. He should have known better than to give Mairon a key to his apartment. Should have locked this room and forgotten all about its existence. But he had needed his birth certificate for some mundane chore, honestly who needed an ID these days, and had come in here. Had searched and searched, forgotten the time and now here they were.

“I don't enjoy my job all that much...”

“Well, maybe you would if you had a proper space for it.” Mairon rubbed his forehead. Then, he strutted across the mess, pens crunching under his heels, the backs of books cracking. He brushed past Melkor and the desk and threw open the curtains. Blinding daylight fell into the room and illuminated thick swirls of dust. Melkor recoiled, hissing.

“This is really not-” he started, but Mairon caught him off by grabbing his wrist.

“Yes, it is. We'll simply change plans. Forget the stupid chess game, we're going to IKEA.”


	3. Angbang @ IKEA Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of this little trilogy, hope you enjoy :)

Mairon reached over the table, entwining their hands. He squeezed Melkor's, but Melkor wouldn't budge, no matter how the touch made his stomach flutter. No matter how warm and happy he felt after the sugar infusion of the waffles they'd just enjoyed. Topped with whipped cream and chocolate sauce and sprinkles. All the things Melkor hated to love. No. He was grumpy. Very grumpy. They sat in the garden department of the IKEA Mairon had forced him to drive to using terrible weapons of conviction. His pouts had strained Melkor's resolve. His fierce onslaught of arguments had nearly torn down his walls. The threat of sex-deprivation had made him get into the car, defeated. But this was just too much for Melkor. They were perched on uncomfortable, wiry chairs, caged in by walls of plastic plants, and surrounded by screaming babies and half-witted parents. Melkor had bumped into several pregnant-to-bursting women on their way through the exhibition halls, had almost run over an old woman looking at bookshelves and had broken one of the couches Mairon had wanted to try out for fun. All in the matter of half an hour. And now this.

“Melkor, love,” Mairon said, his tone coloured with an explosive cocktail of joy and annoyance. Melkor's heart melted a little, but he kept his eyes fixed to the ceiling. It was the only space in this godforsaken store that didn't burst with visual overwhelm. That didn't try to be something it was not. “Please don't be like this.”

Melkor took a deep breath, then looked at Mairon. He had his face propped up on his hands and gazed at Melkor openly. There was a spot of chocolate sauce on his nose. Why did it have to be like this? Time and time again, Mairon tested Melkor's patience, brought him to the brink of sanity and yet Melkor went along. Part of him even enjoyed it. That part made him lean across the table and kiss the chocolate of Mairon's nose. Mairon blushed, blinking.

“Uh.”

“You had sauce in your face,” Melkor mumbled and got up, nearly tripping over a toy stroller and its gap-toothed owner. The child started to cry instantly, and Melkor stood rooted to the spot, watching as the mother shot him a deathly glare, as she gathered the child into her arms and walked back to their table where two other children had more than just a spot of chocolate smeared across their ugly little visages.

“I hate it here,” he said.

“C'mon,” Mairon said and got up as well, grabbed Melkor's arm and dragged him away. Through thickets of fake roses and towering rows of vanilla-scented candles that had Melkor sneeze and sniffle.

At last, they entered the great hall where the actual furniture was kept and Melkor marvelled at Mairon's uncanny ability to navigate it all. They halted before a tall shelf filled with cardboard boxes. Small signs advertised Billys and Kallaxes and Melkor had no idea in what kind of a dimension he had landed. He usually let his father's minions pick out and assemble his furniture for him. Mairon was deep in thought, his brow screwed up as he inspected the labels.

“Your carpet is taupe, right?” he asked.

“I've never heard that word in my life.”

“Are you serious?” Mairon gaped at him.

“I'm not an academic like you, I dropped out of high school, Mairon,” Melkor said darkly. He had no shame in admitting this, but next to Mairon's three graduate degrees and PhD in engineering, he felt somewhat lack-lustre.

“Oh god, I'm in love with a complete moron,” Mairon said, stole a sweet, lingering kiss off Melkor's lips, then pointed at a cardboard carton. “Take two of those. We have some serious work to do.”


	4. Angbang @ IKEA Pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the conclusion :D

The coffee machine beeped obnoxiously once it was done brewing, but it could not drown out the stream of curses that issued from Melkor's study. Melkor rubbed his forehead as he poured two mugs. They had spent the last two hours clearing out the room and now three bags of trash lined his hallway, his living room table bent dangerously under the weight of alphabetically sorted books and he had survived several sneezing fits due to excessive dusting.

All that out of the way, Mairon had begun to assemble the shelves they'd bought. Well, tried to. When Melkor carried the two mugs back to the room, he found Mairon kneeling on the floor – something that would usually give him all sorts of ideas – his hair in disarray. An assembly of wooden panels and screws covered the ground they had laboured so hard to clear. Mairon held some tool Melkor couldn't identify and harsh lines of frustration lined his beautiful face. Twisting it into a grimace.

“That looks less like a shelf than it did when it was still in the packaging,” Melkor commented and held out the coffee. Mairon scowled up at him. When he noticed the mug, a dry sob escaped his lips and he made a grab for it.

“It's impossible,” he said. “I've been trying to put this thing together for half an hour at least. It's simply impossible.” Melkor stared at Mairon, then at the mess. Something bubbled up inside of him, an urge to laugh. This was his brilliant, genius boyfriend who'd finished high school when other had barely hit puberty, who had more university degrees than Melkor had cars (which was saying something). Who had done his doctorate in engineering with his left pinky. And he couldn't put together a simple bookshelf. It seemed formal education wasn't everything after all.

“I'm sure there is a trick,” Melkor said. He sat down next to Mairon and drew him against his side. They stared at the wooden planks and Melkor wished he could go back to this morning. Before he'd tripped up and let Mairon see his messy study.

“There isn't. It's just stupid. Impossible.”

“Isn't there an instruction manual?” he asked, rubbing Mairon's shoulder.

“Over there...” Mairon pointed at a crumpled booklet and nursed his coffee.

“Alright, I'll try,” Melkor said. He deposited his drink on the desk, then thumped through the pages. Mairon watched, his mood growing gloomier by the minute, as Melkor assembled the shelf. The instructions were pretty clear, clear enough for a good-for-nothing fool like him anyway. It took him all of fifteen minutes to put up the first shelf and even less than that for the second.

“That wasn't all that hard,” Melkor said when both pieces of furniture were snugly tucked against the back wall, waiting to be filled up with the books from the living room.

Mairon didn't say anything, only stared into his coffee. Melkor had had enough of his attitude.

“How long did you go to uni for again?”

An indiscernible murmur.

“Excuse me?”

“Thirteen years.”

“Thirteen years,” Melkor repeated. “Thirteen years and your moron of a boyfriend has to put together the IKEA shelves because you can't.”

“Seems like it,” Mairon said stiffly. He shot up from his perch on the floor and stormed out of the room. Melkor sighed. He eyed the shelves. Thought about casually bumping into them so they fell apart and he could tell Mairon he'd done a sodden job on them after all. But no. He had to learn to accept being bad at something for once.

Melkor found Mairon perched on the couch, his knees drawn up to his chest, his face buried against them. It was mostly show, of course, Melkor knew him well enough by now to realize this. Mairon was so used to everything going his way, to being the smartest person around that it was hard for him to fail at anything. It wasn't something Melkor could empathise with, he had enough money by way of his father not to need to be good at anything. But he did hate for Mairon to be mopey and sad. It made him ache too.

“Won't you help me put the books into them? You have a better eye for order.”

Mairon looked up, annoyance turning into disbelief at Melkor's gentle smile.

“You mean that?” he asked hoarsely. Melkor leaned forward and cupped Mairon's cheek with one hand.

“Of course I do,” Melkor said and he kissed Mairon's nose. “Just tell me where to put them.” The light returned to Mairon's face, impossibly brighter than before and instantly he began to issue a string of instructions as he jumped to his feet. Melkor shook his head in silent laughter and began to carry the books towards their designated spaces. All for Mairon's sake. Everything for Mairon's sake. And Melkor didn't even mind.


	5. The Chaining of Melkor Reloaded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This somehow escalated. Hope you enjoy it, silly though it is :D
> 
> Warning: some sexual content 
> 
> (Also everything I know about prisons in the US comes from OITNB so please forgive me some inaccuracies)

Mairon liked to lie which was probably why he was such an outstanding lawyer. He lied to the money-thick, disgusting men whose tax fraud cases he represented in telling them that they would go back to their life of luxury soon. He lied to their wives when they asked him whether he knew of any affairs their husbands might pursue in telling them that no, of course not, he was loyal. He lied to the Starbucks barista ever so often, claiming they had gotten his order wrong so they would give him a refund.

But most of all, Mairon lied to himself. He told himself that being a junior partner in his firm was enough, that he did not have to make it as a state attorney, that he did not want to be a full partner or, better yet, have his own firm. He told himself he didn’t miss his family who lived across the ocean, miss the gloomily luminous charm of England and his endless number of siblings whom he had left to turn his long-distance relationship into one where the only separating space was that between the two mattresses on their California King size because Melkor hadn’t yet gotten around to ordering a single big one. The list went on.

The biggest lie Mairon told himself frequently was this: he was not attracted by stupidity, on the contrary, he dated a man of vast intelligence and many a notable achievement. Melkor’s pretty face was merely a bonus. It was a precarious construction, teetering and nearly brought down in instances when Melkor couldn’t name the current president, managed to wedge himself in between the car and the garage door again, or confused their for there for they’re for the umpteenth time, but he always made up for it. Melkor had an important job as the CEO of a real estate firm, he was as rich as they got without going into politics and participating in lobbyism. Melkor owned a whole library of books on various topics. Melkor was a man of standard and intellect and Mairon would not let himself be told any differently.

That was until he got back from the office one night, it was a Wednesday, he would later recall, the anniversary of their first chat on Facebook, to find a patrol car on the curb in front of their house. A lanky cop leaned against it, munching on a hamburger.

“Good evening,” Mairon said, putting on his pleasant voice. The one that hooked him his clients. “Can I help you, officer?”

“Finally, we could not reach your phone, mobile or office, and I’ve been waiting for you to get home,” the officer replied, crumbs flying. “This is about your client.”

“What client?” Mairon asked. He had been in a conference, that much was true, his phone still in flight mode, but if any client of his had done something that would involve the police needing to approach Mairon, they would have come to the office, surely.

“Mr. ah,” the cop stopped and consulted a wrinkly piece of paper in his breast pocket. “Mr. Melkor Bauglir. We’ve arrested him for vehicular manslaughter. Apparently, he was, and I quote, ‘not sure how to put in the reverse gear on his car and had to exit his parking spot by driving across the sidewalk’. He apparently lost control of the vehicle when a dog jumped in front of it, hit the brakes and swerved to the right where he ran the car into a construction side, causing the death of one and serious injury of four other construction workers.”

Mairon blinked. Then he brushed past the cop and went into their shared house without a word of reply. This was all just a silly dream, he told himself as he uncorked the wine he had saved for a particularly fine evening. Horrifying would do too. Just a dream.

“You really had to go ahead and kill someone,” Mairon said in place of a greeting as he sat down on the panic-red plastic chair in front of the thick glass and picked up the receiver. He tried not to think about how many people had vented their frustration into it before him and how much of the subsequent spittle still crusted its edges. Melkor sat on the other side, his orange inmate overall clashing violently with his pallor so that he looked a little like he had a mild case of jaundice. His black hair hung in streaks down his front, his mouth was thin, lips nearly invisible. It had been three days since the cop had approached Mairon, and he had refused to see Melkor in that time, had only yielded because his boyfriend had sounded so hollow and miserable over the phone and because the house seemed too empty without him. “You look like hell.”

“Of course, I look like hell, I’m stuck in a dumpster,” Melkor muttered, eyes narrowed.

“It’s your own fault,” Mairon supplied, and when that got him no answer, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Look, they won’t let you out on bail. Apparently, the construction site belonged to the city so they’re going to sue the living daylight out of you and plead for a lifelong sentence.”

“No big deal.” Melkor swatted at the air as if to make away with the charges like with a nasty mosquito.

“Quite the big deal, if you ask me,” Mairon grated, teeth pressed together. He had to be back in the office in twenty minutes and Melkor didn’t even seem concerned.

“I’m sure you’ll manage to free me of all charges. Perks of having an up and coming lawyer for your boyfriend.”

“Melkor, listen to me,” Mairon said, leaning forward, He pressed his forefinger into the glass. “I cannot take your case, our relationship forbids it.”

“But if we’re not married-“

“Doesn’t matter, if they get a whiff of our relationship, it may discredit my whole case and you’ll truly be stuck. I can’t represent you, love, I’m sorry.”

That got Melkor to finally sit straight. Panic poured through the line as he spoke, and it twisted the knot in Mairon’s throat.

“But, but. I can’t stay here. You have to get me out. Don’t you know someone? Anyone? Mairon, do something,” Melkor shrieked, jumping up. In an instant, three guards were on him, restraining him and he was dragged out of sight before there was a chance to reply. 

Mairon rolled his eyes and slammed the phone back into its hanging, blood boiling. He strode out of the visitor’s room and left the prison behind, fuming with rage and frustration and underneath those layers, a spark that blossomed in the depths of his belly.

“What a moron,” he muttered as he slid into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes. “What an utter moron.”

Mairon took a deep, shaky inhale to steady himself. He stood before the polished door of his colleague’s office space, not a junior partner yet, but surely on his way, and knocked.

“Come in,” came the smooth reply, and Mairon pushed it open, forcing his facial muscles to relax, thought of how funny it had been when Melkor had meant to replace the toilet seat in the guest bathroom and had accidentally pulled the whole thing out of the wall. Somehow, it didn’t get the job done though. Mairon’s mood only soured further. “Mairon, pal, sit, sit. Have a good lunch?”

Angmar sat in his high-backed chair, a ridiculous expense, his fingertips stapled together in front of his face. His hair was combed back, and his beard neatly trimmed. He smelled like burnt tea.

“Ah, you know how sensible my stomach can be, I’m afraid I had to revert back to grilled cheese,” Mairon lied in reply. Considering the whole debacle at the prison, he hadn’t had the chance to eat at all and his intestines were screaming with abandonment.

“Good old grilled cheese, a national symbol if ever I’ve seen one. I myself had two orders of California Rolls from the best sushi place in town, you know the one. But anyway, look at me, blabbing on. Back to work now, ain’t it? What can I do for you my friend?” Angmar grinned, exposing a set of pearly whites with one gold tooth to the upper left. Mairon remembered that evening, though he would have preferred not to. He cleared his throat, thinking it might be best to get to the point.

“Melkor managed to get himself into jail,” Mairon began and watched the shock unfold on Angmar’s face with slight impatience. “Vehicular manslaughter, destruction of property, mayhem, and a couple minor charges. No bail accepted, and I can’t defend his case.”

Angmar’s eyebrows rose. Then he burst out into hollering laughter.

“Please, Angmar, I know it sounds funny, but this is my boyfriend we’re talking about,” Mairon said calmly, though his insides were fuming. Then, he remembered Angmar’s weakness for a good love story, and put on the teary face. “And it was an accident, I mean. He would never actually want to hurt anyone.” Not something Mairon was confident in. “And we had meant to go on this big vacation and I think perhaps he wanted to propose and now he’s in prison, I can’t believe it.” Mairon sobbed, burying his face in his hands. If this didn’t get Angmar, then he would have to butter on the praise. But the laughter died instantly.

“Geez, I’m so sorry, Mairon, that’s truly horrible. How can I help?”

“Take his case. You’re the only chance I have.” He peered out between his fingers. Angmar was tapping his lips with a pencil, staring at the ceiling. “He’s very rich,” Mairon added.

“Consider it done,” Angmar said. He patted Mairon’s shoulder over the desk.

“We’ll find another way,” Mairon said, reaching out over the sterile plastic table he and Melkor occupied. Now that Melkor was a permanent resident of the facility and had distinguished himself through well-adjusted behavior – meaning he rarely did anything, ever – they got to meet without the glass between them. Hand-holding was the absolute maximum though, and Melkor’s skin was dry, full of tiny rashes when Mairon touched it. Melkor stared down at their hands, his gaze glazed over.

“I’ll rot in here.” And Melkor had every right to claim that. Angmar had done a fantastic job, but the city had had too many of its own pawns in the game, and there had never been a chance. Melkor would lose half of his fortune, would have to serve a reduced sentence of seven years and have to do civic work for another three. It was better than life-long, but Mairon would not stand it.

“No, you won’t,” Mairon promised. “We’ll find another way.”

He twisted his hand so the folded in Swiss pocket knife he had bought that morning pressed into Melkor’s hand. Melkor’s brow furrowed, then he pulled back his hand with the tool and brought it close to his face to inspect it. It lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Quick, hide it,” Mairon hissed, but too late. As Melkor flipped the thing open, blade gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light, a guard stormed towards them, gun at Melkor’s temple before anyone else could realize what was happening.

“DROP THE KNIFE INMATE,” the guard screamed, spittle flying. Melkor complied.

“Sorry,” he said to Mairon with a small, apologetic smile. Mairon pinched the bridge of his nose. Moments later, Melkor was gone from the room and an escort was sent to take Mairon out of the prison.

He was barred from visits for the next three months, and that memory of Melkor’s skin against his, the soft plains of his awed expression as he had realized Mairon’s plans were all he had to cling to, all that kept him company at night when he was doomed to fulfill his own aching desires.

Without volition on Mairon’s part nor with active awareness on Melkor’s, it got to be a pattern.

Mairon slipped Melkor a written note on the security systems which he had procured after dissolving into tears at his colleague’s Gothmog’s desk who had worked a case to do with an escaped inmate once. Gothmog had let Mairon review the file under the guise of research for a new client and Mairon had jotted down the most vital points so that Melkor could work on an escape plan with all the free time he had. Melkor mistook the note for trash and discarded of it in the visitation room’s bin.

Then, he sent large sums of money onto Melkor’s prison bank account so he could buy some of the guards’ favors and Melkor used it all on communal bathroom slippers and toothpaste because his got stolen so frequently, he needed new ones by the day. If he had been any more inclined towards intentional violence, Melkor could have reigned that place, but all his aggressions were accidental. He had a lot more enemies than friends in that place. In general, now that Mairon thought about it.

Later, Mairon brought candy spiked with narcotics for Melkor to distribute amongst the guards and slip out of the prison in the ensuing disruption, but Melkor forgot about the contents. He ate the whole bag himself which meant Mairon received a call at three in the morning informing him that Melkor had fallen into a coma and was unlikely to ever wake up again. He did, eventually, but Mairon was careful to change tactics. 

He dug up shady details about other inmates’ lives so Melkor could blackmail them into helping him organize an escape plan or a riot or really anything that would provide an opportunity for Melkor to get out. In true fashion, Melkor mixed up the inmate’s names and, rather than threatening anyone, insulted a lot of people which resulted in him becoming the victim of a planned attack. No pudding for a whole week.

The list went on and on, and every night that Mairon went to bed alone, jerked off under angry tears and cursed the day he had clicked on Melkor’s profile, a part of him died.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Mairon announced once upon a visit. His nose was red and runny from the biting cold outside and the first snow had fallen the prior weekend, an emissary of the loneliest holidays he would ever celebrate. He had half a mind to go back to England, just for Christmas, but he couldn’t well leave Melkor here to rot on his own. No, he was devoted and not at all happy about it.

“Enough of what?” Melkor asked. He looked the same as he always did, orange cloth in constant warfare with his taint, his hair open, greasy, now down to his waistline. The prison hairdresser only dropped in once every six months. Their hands lay on the table, twined together, no space between them and it felt to Mairon like he was stranded in a desert, half dead from thirst and only given drops of sea water to drink. He needed to feel Melkor’s mouth, his face, his chest, his cock which no dildo had yet been able to replace. He needed for this nightmare to be over and for Melkor to come home, abandoned though it was as Mairon spent almost all day at work or at various begrudging friends’ houses so he wouldn’t be alone.

“Enough of waking up to a cold mattress beside me, enough of cooking too much because I forget I’m by myself now, enough of fingering myself in the bathtub pretending you’re with me.”

A guard near them cleared his throat noisily.

“I have apologized extensively,” Melkor said, shrugging. “Believe me, if I could, I would bend you over this very table and have my way, but alas. Rules.”

The guard spluttered, but Mairon ignored him.

“There might be a way. Ever heard of a conjugal visit?”

“A what now?”

Mairon explained it patiently, thinking himself clever, and accentuated this whole idea with a sheet of paper he pulled out of his bag. Melkor’s expression darkened, his eyes stormy-wild, his mouth set.

“What is that?” he growled.

“Paperwork. I’ll have the guard lend us a pen and we can seal it right here and now.”

“That’s the worst proposal ever,” Melkor muttered and retracted the hand that was holding Mairon’s to cross his arms over his chest.

“It’s the only one either of us is going to get in the next five years or so. At best. Face it, Melkor, you ruined any prospects of a proper wedding with your accident.” Mairon leaned back, tapping the paper with a nail. “If we sign this, at least we get to fuck ever so often.”

“No.”

“Sorry?” Mairon smiled, thinking of a hundred different ways he wanted to make Melkor sign the papers already. He had been patient, clever, smart, loving, supportive. He had not left Melkor, was going to stick through this with him. And here he was, this boyfriend he had sacrificed everything for, denying him the simplest of carnal pleasures.

“I am not marrying you in a prison’s visitation room,” Melkor said, a finality in his voice that had Mairon wish he could turn back time or at the very least, make Melkor understand that this wasn’t the place for romantic touches.

“You should,” he said through gritted teeth, anger flaring. His stress levels were through the roof.

“No. Absolutely not. I’d rather wait and run on fantasies of you than throw away something so special. You can only get married once.”

“That’s not-“

“End of discussion,” Melkor said and gestured for the guard to lead him out of the room.

The solution Mairon came up with was, perhaps, far from ideal and very costly, but it was the only one he saw, the only scenario in which he wouldn’t go insane with longing. Mairon bought a rifle, waited for nightfall, and snuck into the nearest air base. Then he only had to apply what was left of Melkor’s savings to impress upon the right people. A prison selection here, a cell assignment there, and wouldn’t you know. They dressed him in that horrid orange, gave him a bedroll and lead him to a sorry, colorless room with two cods, a few shelves on the walls and his boyfriend, idling away.

“Oh god,” Melkor gasped, sitting up. Mairon laughed as he was shoved into the cell, stumbling into Melkor’s chest. They fall back against the creaky, hard prison bed, Mairon on top of Melkor who still wore a startled expression. “What did you do?”

“Aggravated theft of a military vehicle,” Mairon said, feeling rather proud to have pulled it off. He would have gotten away with it too if he hadn’t gambled for them to catch him trying to escape.

“You are impossible,” Melkor laughed.

“And you a moron.”

They met in a soft, exploring kiss, the first in forever, the first in a million. All the time in the world to make up for the last year or so.

“I love you for going to prison with me,” Melkor panted into the crook of Mairon’s neck later that night.

“And I love you for…” Mairon paused, trying to think of something redeeming about this situation other than the bites littering his chest, the rigid cock that pounded into him with reckless abandon. He came up short, but that was okay. “For you. I love you for you.”


	6. The Two Towers Abstracted (OITNB AU #2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sequel to The Chaining of Melkor Reloaded, my stupid little prison modern AU which I've decided to dub the OITNB AU because that show is literally all I know about prison's in the US and I don't even know whether it's accurate. Forgive me and enjoy anyway :D
> 
> Warnings: explicit sexual content!!!

Mairon put his hands to his waist, re-arranging himself in front of the mirror of the communal bathroom. He had slipped out of the upper part of his overall and tied it into a belt, had discarded his grey tank-top at the laundry room that morning. His hair, though dulled by the lack of sunlight in this forsaken prison, was down to his elbows, tickling his bare shoulders. He turned a little, sucking in his stomach, poking at his pecs. It had been too long without a visit to the gym and his sorry workout routine in the backyard was barely enough for the upkeep of his physique. If he didn’t take care, he would lose his carefully carved definition, the muscles that had cost him many hours and dollars.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t run around half-naked,” Melkor growled as he emerged from the showers, a faded towel wrapped around his hips. He walked up to Mairon, arms snaking around Mairon’s middle. His chest, steamy and wet, pressed against Mairon’s backside in a delicious line. As if that wasn’t enough to tease Mairon, to reduce him to a frantic heartbeat and heavy breaths, Melkor was half-hard against Mairon’s ass, and his long fingers drew agonizing circles over the planes of Mairon’s abs. “This is for my eyes alone.”

Mairon shuddered, bracing himself on the sink, as Melkor nuzzled his neck with hot lips, let one hand slip into the tied overall to tease at the tender skin around Mairon’s cock. Melkor’s other hand wandered upwards, pinched a nipple, then worked itself between them to squeeze Mairon.

“If this is your reaction,” Mairon panted. “Then I will never wear a shirt again.”

Melkor hummed and bit down on Mairon’s neck at the same time as he wrapped his long fingers around Mairon’s erection. Tension coiled tightly in Mairon’s belly. There was no way he would let Melkor get away with a sorry hand-job to stake his claim.

“Melkor.”

“Hm?”

“Love, please.” Mairon’s breath eased into the rhythm of Melkor’s easy strokes, feeble moans gathered at the back of his throat, thick by the heat of Melkor’s skin against his, the hand between them that massaged Mairon’s ass as well as working Melkor’s length which was pulsing, rock-hard.

“Really?” Melkor said, licking at the bruise he had painted across Mairon’s shoulder. “Here?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve nothing to prepare you.”

Mairon rummaged in his toiletry bag, then pulled out the little vial of oil he had purchased for his split ends.

“I’m always prepared,” he groaned and wriggled out of the orange fabric, then opened the bottle and handed it to Melkor.

“Sweet.” It was a practiced dance, but Mairon would never get weary of Melkor’s fingers prodding at his entrance, the oily-wetness when he pushed them in, the sting of his body’s resistance against the intrusion. The sweet cocktail of hormones, the contractions of his abdominals, it was all too grand to forgo the sensation. Mairon’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the steel of the sink and he wanted desperately to turn around and kiss Melkor. Not enough to forfeit this sweet surrender though.

“-I swear the bread they gave us this mor-“

Mairon peered up, lids heavy, lips parted to find that two inmates had walked into the bathroom with towels and shampoo clutched to their fronts. He couldn’t remember their names, didn’t even recognize their shell-shocked visages. Not that it mattered.

“Get out,” he drawled and arched into Melkor’s curling fingers inside of him, gasped as his thumb stroked the tip of Mairon’s cock. They scrambled away, dropping a body lotion in the process. Already forgotten. “Melkor, please.”

“Fine.” Sloppily, Melkor removed the towel, slicked himself up, oil running down both their legs and he placed a hand between Mairon’s shoulder blades, pushed him forward, against the mirror. He retracted his other hand which left Mairon’s aching erection trapped between his body and the cold metal, on the knife’s edge between pain and pleasure, and used it to part Mairon’s cheeks, guide his own cock into the loosened muscle. Yes, he would absolutely never get enough of this. Mairon arced his back, pressing his lower half against Melkor so he was buried completely.

“I would ask whether you needed a moment,” Melkor said, gripping Mairon’s sides. “But I’m under the impression your patience runs thin.”

“Hard and fast, if you please,” Mairon moaned, rolling his hips as much as the space between them allowed. They both gasped in tandem with the slap of their skin and Melkor obliged, indulged Mairon, not that he could resist, not ever. Fingerprints bloomed on Mairon’s fragile skin as Melkor pounded into him without regard for the appliance they were abusing, nor for the way Mairon’s body scraped over the hard surface. It was reckless abandon, it was beautiful, it was the only way to bear this sentence and do it with his head held high. The desire in his stomach tightened and thrashed and his spluttered when Melkor forsook rhythm in favour of speed. A low growl caressed Mairon’s backside when Melkor bent over him to get a better angle.

“This hard and fast enough for you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Melkor gave a frustrated yowl at that and went impossibly faster, harder, bruise-inducingly brutal and Mairon took it with stride, eyes closed. The entire bottom half of his body burned with the strain and the tension and he was held upright only by Melkor’s firm grip.

“Mairon… Mairon, I-“

“Yes.”

Bliss crashed over them like lightning, two bodies high-strung and full of electric current as they reached their climax within moments of each other, rocking through the sensation with shattered moans and declarations of love that, though unspoken, filled the room completely, nearly made Mairon forget the predicament they were in. That was, until Melkor spoke.

“That was nice,” he said. He pulled away from Mairon, pulled Mairon upright and pecked his cheek.

“Pretty public place to fuck me if you are worried about people gawking at me,” Mairon commented as he brushed his hair with numb fingers. “Doesn’t really make sense.”

“Yes, it does. Now everyone will know you’re mine.”

“They already do, love.”

Melkor just shook his head, trudging back into the shower.

Once they were all dressed and proper, had had their meagre lunch of bean stew and had bought themselves ungodly amounts of chocolate with other inmates’ money, Melkor and Mairon returned to their cell to find a neat queue in front of it, all eagerly awaiting an audience. Mairon brushed past them, Melkor at his hand and they sat, shared a quick kiss, before Mairon called the first one in.

“Alright, Lurtz, whaddaya got for me?” Mairon asked as a broad guy shouldered into their room. He had a handprint tattoed across his ever-scowling features and long black hair he wore in a high ponytail. He used to be surrounded by like-minded cronies all-day long, gym bros with tattoos that looked borderline extremist, stupefied through their excessive consumption of steroids and meth. Mairon had put an end to that, had worked his superior intellect and, yes, his peach-shaped ass to rid this prison of gang culture. There was only one group of prisoners who owned the place now and they were both arranged on the lower bunk of their shared cell now. Mairon with his back against the wall, cross-legged, using Melkor’s head in his lap to prop up his makeshift register on. Melkor was idly playing with Mairon’s foot, drowsy from using up all the hot water and bullying the others into several helpings of their food. Such was their privilege.

Lurtz build himself up in front of them, then cowered at Mairon’s glare. 

“I want your help,” he admitted.

“I guessed that much,” Mairon replied. “Your crime?”

“I was paid to abduct two seventeen-year-old boys because they were supposed to have stolen something valuable and the person who they stole from wanted to punish them. I was to take them to the coast, extract the thing they had stolen and then hand them over to some old guy who smuggles people onto container ships. I was caught by a military unit that was patrolling the harbour.”

“Alright, human trafficking it is,” Mairon sighed as he made a quick note. “And your sentence?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven years? For kidnapping two high schoolers?” Someone must have felt merciful.

“Well,” Lurtz said, scratching the back of his neck. “I wasn’t the only one involved so they gave each of us milder sentences.”

That’s not how that works, Mairon thought. He pinched the bridge of his nose and filled in the punishment column on his customer worksheet. “Alright, Lurtz. What do you have going for you?”

“Sorry?”

“If we want to make a case for you, we have to know what you have going for you. Family? Charity? A grandma in a home that needs your care?”

“What do you care about my grandma?” Lurtz growled. He made to lurch forward, but Melkor casually held out his palm which froze the other man dead in his tracks. There had only ever been one incident in which Melkor had had to assert his dominance physically and while it had given him a week of solitary confinement, it had instilled a basal fear in the other inmates. Mairon’s lips peeled back in a feral grin.

“Here’s how this works, Lurtz,” he hissed. “You come to me because you want to get out of here. I can get you out of here. I am, in fact, the only one who can get you out of here. So, we do this on my terms and I don’t like to repeat myself.”

“Well, my grandma is in a home. We have a rare genetic mutation running in our family, my parents never told me why, but it makes some, ah, how do you say. Your thoughts and stuff, makes them weaker, muddled, the older you get. My mom and dad are already afflicted and can’t take care of grandma,” Lurtz explained with several shrugs to accentuate his linguistic deficiencies. Here was a case that would give even the most scruple-free lawyer something to think about. Mairon bit down the questions he had and proceeded with his business.

“Good, now there is something the jury will be in tears about. And what can you offer me in return?”

“I don’t have much money…”

“How much?”

“A couple thousand perhaps, whatever my parents can scrape together. There’s the house, of course.”

“I think we will find an agreement. What else?” Mairon asked, smelling blood. These inmates were like caged animals, only one instinct on top of their priority list. To get out. “Something more concrete perhaps, if you get my meaning.”

“I don’t have much. Some car magazines… Oh! I get drugs. For my insomnia,” Lurtz blurted, cheeks flushed. Mairon’s eyebrows shot up. Sleeping pills, huh? A plan began to take up shape in his mind’s eye.

“Very well, I’ll take you prescription for the rest of your stay. Once you get your telephone privileges back you call this number. Ask for Mr. Curumo, he will arrange for everything. Pleasure.” Mairon fished a slip of paper out of his breast pocket, identical to the twenty or so others he had prepared. Curumo’s name and number were on it, a mixture of a newly forged alliance and an old debt between classmates. Curumo, after producing too many children for his own good and going on a mad power spree at his old firm, was desperate for some jobs. He wasn’t too shabby at his job either and Mairon reminded him frequently of how he wouldn’t have made it through their first year of law school if it hadn’t been for Mairon’s diligent drills.

“Thank you,” Lurtz said. He grabbed the note, anxiously eyeing Melkor as he did so, then hurtled out of the cell.

“Maggots, all of them,” Melkor murmured. He shifted his head to kiss Mairon’s ankle. Mairon smiled, heat blooming under his skin.

“They have their uses,” Mairon said, putting his spreadsheet aside for the moment. Melkor didn’t resist as Mairon pulled on his collar, pulled him up, his great weight like a warm blanket across his chest. “Should we invite the next one in? Or shall I go ahead and make you jealous again?”

“Jesus, prison has made you insatiable.” Melkor caught Mairon’s lower lip between his teeth, cradled his head with the hand he didn’t use to prop himself up. How easy it would have been to give in and melt into Melkor, to claim his mouth, let himself be claimed until his skin was raw from the cheap fabric of their prison bed, raw from Melkor pounding into him, nails scraping all over Mairon’s backside, raw from the only good thing life still granted them both. But there was a line of costumers in front of their cell, too precious to give up. They gave them money, means for planning their escape and might over Curumo’s future.

“I suppose I can wait until after dinner,” Mairon replied. He kissed Melkor once, gently, then pushed him back into his lap.

“Next,” he called and tried not to cringe at the blind eye and fleshy visage of Bolg, their next-cell neighbour. “Bolg. What can I do for you?”


	7. The One Engagement Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thiiiiiieves! We hates them! 
> 
> Enjoy :D

Three seconds. Barely any time at all. Negligible in the greater scheme of Mairon’s life, nothing to the ever-advancing flow of the universe, miniscule, dismissible, stupid. Three seconds was all it had taken to ruin Mairon’s picture book life. Melkor would kill him.

These were the facts as Mairon had them:

  1. He’d slipped into the bathroom at the university library for a short piss and to get a minute of quiet in the constant chatter of his study group which was spiralling head-first into a discussion about the meaning of life. Even though they were anthropology graduate students with at least half the group minoring in either philosophy or sociology, this was never a good idea.
  2. When he’d been in the stall, his engagement ring had still gleamed golden on his ring finger, a constant, warm reminder of the grand day to come. Mairon had planned an autumn wedding, complete with matching tuxes, a seven-course feast and was already training Draugluin to carry the wedding rings down the aisle with Thuringwethil as his reluctant guardian. Melkor, of course, would have preferred for them to pop into Vegas and have some drunken fat Elvis proclaim them married, or better yet, simply hand in the necessary paper work on his way to the office, but Mairon was having none of that. If for one day in his life he wanted to feel special, be marvelled at and fawned over, it was going to be this day, his accursed father be damned.
  3. After completing his business, he’d slipped the ring off and into his pocket to wash his hands. He wouldn’t chance it being dulled by hard water or rough soap. Mairon always did it like this, only putting the piece of jewellery back on whenever his hands were dry and spotless, but when he’d made to retrieve it, his pocket had been empty.
  4. There’d been two other people on the bathroom with him and he couldn’t remember whether they’d ever come near him at all, but their childish faces, curly heads, and mischievous giggles could only mean one thing: freshmen.
  5. For three seconds between drying his hands and reaching for the ring, Mairon had leaned over the sink and inspected his own face. The stress of upcoming exams together with his thesis‘ due date drawing ever nearer gave him red spots along his jawline and he’d glared at them to will them away before Melkor picked him up.



Conclusion: As Mairon had been caught up in his own flaws, one or both of those bastards had sidled up to him and stolen the ring out of his pocket without him noticing. This implied many things, for example that the fatigue was getting to Mairon’s mental capacities or that those freshmen were unusually sneaky. Chiefest of all was this though: Melkor had paid half a fortune for that golden band. For Mairon to lose it, well. It would spell disaster.

Mairon glared at himself in the dirt-speckled mirror, bracing himself on the sink. Three seconds, oh he would show those impertinent, stupid, drunkard gnomes what he could do to a person in three seconds. Mairon took a deep breath and marched out of the bathroom, back to the round table his study group occupied. Eönwe and Tilion were at each other’s necks with arguments dissecting Descartes’ meditations while Osse and Uinen had their tongues down each other’s throats with disgusting slobbering noises. No studying to be done here, one of the sodden constants of Mairon’s life. He grabbed his notes and tablet and shoved them into his bagpack with more force than necessary which had Curumo look up from where he had hovered over his mess of tiny handwritten notes. He looked a little like a deer in head-lights, always lost was poor Curumo. Mairon rolled his eyes and tugged at his classmate’s sleeve.

“What?” Curumo whined, reluctant to forgo the last stretch of productivity he illusioned himself with, but he was already packing up.

“Come with me,” Mairon replied. “We’re going to hunt down some freshmen.”

After a quick text to Melkor to explain he needn’t be picked up today, Mairon dragged Curumo out of the library. The dismayed reply came seconds later, and Melkor wasn’t at all happy with the excuse of needing to tutor Curumo on their upcoming French test. Melkor and Curumo had never gotten along and if Mairon was honest with himself, he would have ditched Curumo after the first week of the first semester, but sometimes the guy proved useful. Especially because, in spite of his timid disposition, he somehow knew everyone on campus, ranging from the most introverted freshman all the way to the creepy maintenance guy who smelled like he lived in the sewers.

“What for?” Curumo asked. They crossed the student-littered yard, dodging peer-pong balls and caffeine-crazed grad students to the cafeteria where Mairon figured his best bet would be. Freshmen were always hungry, and he had a vague memory of four curly-haired heads positively camping in there at all times, claiming they needed seven meals a day to function.

“They stole something from me,” Mairon muttered, raking his hands through his hair. He’d neglected to trim it to its usual chest length and it was getting quite out of hand, tangling at the lightest breeze. Still better than what Curumo’s mother had done to him over the last holiday, short and ragged so that he looked like Jack Frost.

“What did they steal?”

“My engagement ring.”

“What?” Curumo spluttered, and almost ran into the door, but Mairon held it open in time. Under the pretence of having lunch – Mairon never had university lunch if he could help it, the stuff was vile and Melkor was a great cook if he wanted to be – they both got into line, eyes darting about for the thieves.

Mairon spotted the usual groups as he scanned the perimeter. The musical theatre kids led by a haughty grad student with a harp who had a gazillion brothers around. The nature-loving hippies who smoked too much weed for their own good and gave themselves funny names and pretended to be trees on weekends. The burly punk rockers who rode Harleys and had a kink for arson, Mairon had met their gang head Gothmog in a colloquium once, he wasn’t too bad. Even the naval engineering students who usually spent all their free time down by the beaches to test their self-crafted boats where in attendance, picking at salads and discussing hydraulics. Not a sign of those nasty burglars though. 

The guy behind the counter handed him a tray, and Mairon took it, paying with his student ID chip card before turning back towards the room, just in time to see a pair of dark, curly heads disappear through the swinging doors of the cafeteria, chips trailing after them like crumbs. Mairon dropped his food and took off after them, spitting curses. Curumo, the good dog that he was, mirrored this. They tore out of the cafeteria and down the hallway together.

“Hey,” Mairon screamed. “Hey, stop!” The two freshmen threw hasty glances over their shoulders, hollering as they ran and dodged around students, but Mairon and Curumo were faster, knew these halls better and soon enough, they had the two cornered against a row of blue lockers.

“Now,” Mairon crooned and made to advance on them, but before he could, someone interrupted him. “Now you will repent.”

“Hey, what do you want with them,” he barked and two people stepped into Mairon’s and Curumo’s way, obscuring the goblins from view. They were both jocks, broad-shouldered and bearded, and towered a head over Curumo and Mairon. He knew the blond one, Eomer, an agriculture major, from a finance class they’d both taken as an elective, but he’d never seen the other man before. He was the one who’d spoken and wore a sports shirt of a team Mairon had never heard of. A white tree was their logo and their motto was written in a strange swirl of letters that looked almost Arabic.

“Just a friendly chat,” Mairon said through gritted teeth. “Not to worry.”

“That didn’t sound so friendly to me,” the guy growled and Eomer put a hand on his shoulder, nodding. His scowl deepened and his eyes burned, staring daggers into Mairon’s.

“Weren’t you that condescending guy at the back of Accounting 101 who called everyone peasants?” he asked and Mairon sighed inwardly. One bad day to haunt him. Or well, a whole semester of bad days, but who was counting anyway? Melkor had been abroad for that time and Mairon had suffered terribly.

“Why do you even care?” Mairon asked, and Curumo put a warning hand to his arm. It wasn’t unlikely that he’d seen these two beat someone up at some frat party before, but Mairon wasn’t intimidated by such mundane things as physical violence.

“Because they’re our friends,” the second jock growled, crossing his arms over his chest. It was hard not to laugh, these fully grown men proclaiming themselves friends of two troublemakers who weren’t even legally adults yet.

“Look, guys,” Curumo said quietly. “Merry and Pippin stole something very valuable from my friend here and he is rather upset about it.”

Eomer bared his teeth, but the other guy whirled around to stare at the two thieves in question who were huddled against the lockers, but silently giggling amongst themselves.

“Is this true?” he asked, and the tone of his voice implied he knew already. Helpless or not, they probably had a reputation for mischief-making.

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,” one of them said with a thick accent.

“You said it yourself,” the other added, “he is a condescending ass.”

“Boys.”

“Boromir.”

“Enough,” Mairon hissed and pushed through the two jocks and bore down on the freshmen, holding out his empty palm. “You give me back my ring or I will make your lives here a living nightmare. You can hire as many football players and wannabe wrestlers as you want, I am very good friends with the dean, I have more than enough money to bribe every professor in the state to bully you and my boyfriend will beat every last one of your bodyguards to a pulp. Is that clear?”

Merry and Pippin stared at him, their facial muscles contorting in a series of impossible expressions, torn between laughing and crying. They settled for blankness and, at last, Pippin handed over the ring. It was smudged with grease from his fingers and Mairon pulled out a linen handkerchief to polish it with.

“I’m sorry, they’re still not used to their actions having consequences,” Boromir sighed and Eomer nodded sternly.

“Whatever,” Mairon said with half a shrug and he stalked off the scene, leaving Curumo to deal with the polite formalities or whatever the situation demanded. He had his ring back, he could call Melkor to get him after all, he would get laid tonight while all these losers were busy with their parties and teenager friends and studying until their eyes bled. It was not ten minutes later that Mairon was comfortably tucked into Melkor’s Chevrolet, the heated seat warming his ass-cheeks.

“Have a nice day?” Melkor grumbled, not taking his eyes off the parking lot around them. Mairon leaned over and pressed a kiss to the corner of his beloved’s mouth.

“Nothing special,” he replied and leaned into the backrest. “Nothing special at all.” The ring glinted in the low-afternoon sun and everything was as it should be.


	8. Hacker AU #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was born of a random conversation about people hackers and how evil they are. Only makes sense for our beloved dark overlords to take up this profession :D May or may not add another part.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

The basement door creaked open and a burst of blinding yellow light shot down the stairs, making Mairon and Gothmog both flinch. Gothmog's massive hand slipped on the keyboard and a dozen error warnings popped up which grated on Mairon's eardrums with their insistent bleeping. Mairon himself kept his dried and aching eyes trained on his screen. He was deeply engrossed in a chat room with an old man who believed Mairon would help him re-grow his pancreas if he only transferred a large enough sum of money onto the account data Mairon was currently compiling. He had spent the previous week's cat-fishing lonely childless housewives with too much time on their hand and had even managed to hack the odd bitcoin account, as well as sending some twenty thousand fishy emails, but this, he decided, was where the real cash lay. Gullible elderly people who had no clue how technology worked. Mairon smacked his chapped lips together and began composing another intricately scientific-sounding message as, next to him, Gothmog tried to save his progress on altering hospital data banks for insurance fraud and, behind him, the stairs creaked dangerously. The scent of freshly-baked pancakes and ground coffee wafted down, but Mairon had barely enough perception capacities left over to listen to his boss's rolling voice.

"How are we looking, Lieutenant?" Melkor asked which caused Mairon to squint. Now that Melkor mentioned it, the small digits on the screen were a tad blurry. Mairon pressed send on the latest message, the sinker so to speak, and turned towards Melkor who wore a loose v-neck shirt with faded blue jeans and had attempted to draw his hair back into a bun but had evidently forgotten half of it.

"Not at all well, I think I should invest in some contacts after all," Mairon said.

"That's not..." Melkor broke off and rubbed his forehead. "How long have you been up for?"

"Can't say for certain, sir," Mairon replied and made a blind grab for one of the mugs that had amassed next to his mouse. Its lack of caffeinated beverage had his fatigue spike. The next one he grabbed was emtpy as well, but there was nothing for it. Mairon simply returned to the task at hand. Or tried to. He was hindered by two massive arms that wrapped around him and plucked him from the seat like a withered flower. Mairon yelped in protest, but his voice came out like an equally wilted croak and so he went limp, surrendering to Melkor, melting against his chest.

"It's weird, you know?" Gothmog yawned, and picked up another rapidfire round of typing long sequences of code. "The way you treat him."

"I forbid such statements. Mairon is my most valuable asset, I can't have him falling apart." 

"Jesus Christ, talk about motivating speeches."

"Back to work, man," Melkor snapped and carried Mairon up the stairs, then slammed the door shut behind himself. Mairon blinked against the harsh assault of daylight, the overwhelming smell of food that directly attacked his malnourished and overworked system. He dry-retched, then pressed his face into Melkor's neck to hide from the world.

"What have I told you, dear?" Melkor gently chided and headed for the next flight of stairs, one that lead to the upper part of the house where Melkor lived. Mairon awoke from his screen-induced trance with a start. He'd never been allowed up there in all the three years he'd been illlegaly procuring assets in Melkor's basement. 

"Not to overwork myself," Mairon muttered. He wanted to peer through the curtain of Melkor's tousled hair, but his eyes hurt too badly so he kept them shut. "If you saw my outcome report-"

"I'm sure it is phenomenal as always. You have made a rich man out of me, Mairon, and I intend for you to continue that. Don't burn yourself out." 

"Almost sounds like you care about my well-being." Mairon was shaken by a yawn, then another onslaught of tiredness.

"Almost sounds like I do," was the last thing he heard before he drifted off.


End file.
